Dream A Little Dream
by Scrappy LeMonte
Summary: Catherine and Vincent share a dream-will it ever be realized? Catherine spends a long weekend Below, and together, they explore many dreams.


"Drop your bag, Catherine. I'll catch it."

"Gladly. Here it comes." And so saying, she released the handle of her overnight bag.

Vincent caught it neatly and set it down. He reached up and took her waist in his hands, and lifted her off the ladder. Once her feet found ground, she turned and wrapped her arms around his waist; he held her close and tight.

After a moment, she pulled back and looked deeply into his eyes, determined to see through to his heart. "Vincent," she said in her most serious tone, "are you _sure_ it will be alright for me to spend the weekend?" It was Thursday, and she'd only worked half a day; she was going to stay Below until she returned to work Monday morning.

"I am sure," he answered.

She continued to stare. He took her hands in his.

"Catherine," he said softly, taking her hands into his own, "set your mind at ease. I will be alright."

"You'll tell me if you become…overwhelmed?"

"Yes."

She tucked in her chin. "Do you promise?"

He smiled at her. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them softly. _She's so concerned…it's so endearing…_ "I give you my most solemn promise," he said.

She sighed and gave him another squeeze. They set off down the passageway.

Later, as she entered his chamber, she was filled with a sense of well-being. She felt it every time she was in his chamber. He was sitting at his desk, writing in his journal.

"Finished unpacking?" he asked without looking up.

"Yes. I can come back if you'd like to finish?"

"No, no," he said quickly, and closed the book. "I'm finished." He stood. "Father wanted us to have tea in his library, if you'd like?"

"That sounds wonderful."

He tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow, and they set off for the library, strolling casually.

"I believe Mary and Rebecca will be joining us, as well."

"It will be nice to have a chance to talk with them." She paused. "What were you writing about?" she asked.

"That you've come to visit. The things we're planning to do. How glad I am you're here."

She squeezed his arm. "Me, too." She let a beat go by, then added, "I admire your dedication to journaling. I've tried several times to keep a diary. But I get busy and forget to write, or I'm too tired to write, and before I know it, weeks have gone by and I haven't written a word. And then I feel so discouraged, I give up. Then in a few years, I try again."

"I think the pace of life here lends itself to reflection, conversation, writing. And perhaps, not just the pace of our lives, but our lifestyle as well. We read great writing and poetry, and talk about not only its meaning, but our feelings and opinions about the themes and ideas."

"I think that only happens at colleges and universities Above. I'm not sure it's entirely a function of time, either. As we grow older, we become less and less disposed to share our true feelings with each other."

"But if you don't share your honest feelings, you can't feel close to anyone."

She nodded. "Sharing one's honest feelings reveals one's genuine self. It would expose you to being judged on your true self. I can't think of anything more frightening."

He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, "How strange, and how sad to think that while I conceal myself here Below, there are many who are actually hiding in plain sight, Above."

"At least once a day I wonder that you know the deepest, truest part of me, and yet you still count me as a friend."

He stopped and took her by the shoulders. "How can you say such a thing, Catherine?"

"Oh, Vincent, I don't have any illusions. I know myself. I lose my temper too quickly, I'm impulsive, I judge people, sometimes I'm overly emotional, and so many times I use such poor judgment."

She could've continued, but he placed a finger on her lips.

"The core of your self, Catherine," he whispered, "is a lovely, vibrant blossom, the freshest bud just starting to bloom, sweet in its perfume, delicate in its artistry, captivating…" he leaned closer to her face, "…enchanting…" he leaned closer, "…sublime."

He looked so deeply into her eyes, and his face was so close to hers that she stopped breathing. Her stomach dropped down to her thighs, and she thought he was going to kiss her.

Slowly, he straightened up. She started breathing again. "Thank you, Vincent," she whispered, and they resumed their walk.

They entered the library, and greeted Father, Mary, and Rebecca.

After dinner, Olivia invited them to watch a rehearsal of _The Crucible_. Father was playing the part of Reverend Hale, the fiery 'expert on witchcraft.' Lena was playing Abigail Williams, the principle accuser of Salem. Kanin was John Proctor, the man Abigail had an affair with, and the three of them had such powerful chemistry, their performance sent chills down Catherine's spine.

They sat in his chamber, he in his chair, she on the edge of his bed, drinking tea and talking, until she yawned hugely. He walked her to the Guest Chamber.

"I had a wonderful day," she said softly. She felt the flames of her yearning for him start to kindle. She didn't want to douse the flame, but she wanted to keep it very, very small. She concentrated mightily and took deep breaths. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. She pulled back and admonished him, "Promise you won't let me sleep through breakfast?"

He chuckled. "I promise."

"Thank you. Good night, Vincent."

"Sleep well, Catherine."

And so, they parted, both well pleased neither cost the other any emotional discomfort.

But neither could get the other off their mind. Catherine waltzed with the Vincent of her imagination across the guest chamber as she changed into the soft, flowing nightgown he had put in the wardrobe for her. Vincent ambled back to his chamber, a man lost in a lovely dream. He readied himself for bed with her scent surrounding him, his arms filled with her essence. Sleep came easily, as they each imagined the other in their arms and wondered, _would it be so awful, if…?_

Then, in a dream, she could see him so clearly, standing on a small schooner, a tiny speck crossing a vast ocean. He closed his eyes and raised his face, and inhaled deeply the clean ocean air. The bright sun warmed him, the wind blew his mane back over his shoulders, and the cool ocean spray flew up, spattering droplets across his cheeks. After watching many golden sunsets and many rosy dawns, he reached the shore. He journeyed over land under an ultramarine sky, following chains of brilliant white cumulus clouds for many long days until at the twilight of one evening, he reached a magnificent castle. He entered, and she saw herself in a great hall, lighting candles; and as she did, the room was transformed from inky blackness to misty gray, to shining brilliance. She turned and saw him, and smiled. They came together in the middle of a dance floor and waltzed to Chopin; while they were still ruddy-cheeked and breathless, he gave her white roses.

When she woke the next morning, she remembered it as a beautiful dream, but it made her feel sad somehow. She couldn't get it off her mind at breakfast in the Dining Hall. Suddenly, she was aware of Vincent's hand on her arm.

"Catherine? I asked you why you sighed?"

Coming to herself, she smiled ruefully. "I was really lost in my thoughts, wasn't I? Sorry," she apologized to the table. "I had the most wonderful dream last night, but it's left me with a feeling of sadness, and I don't understand why." And she told them about her dream.

"I wonder why you would feel sad, Catherine? That was a wonderful dream," said Mary.

Father shook his head slightly. "I agree with Mary, I don't understand why you should be saddened. Vincent," he asked, turning to him, "what do you think?"

"I don't know what to think—except that when you've finished your breakfast," he said to Catherine, "I'd like to take you on a walk to The Ruins."

"Hmm, yes…well, do take along a first aid kit and some water," said Father.

They walked happily together, neither Catherine nor Vincent minding at all when he had to put his arms around her to boost her up or help her down over the rugged terrain. They walked through caverns where the walls and ceilings were covered with flowering vines, and they were showered with soft, fragrant petals. In the distance, a dozen distinct waterfalls cascaded down a jagged fifty-foot drop. Dozens of things that looked and moved like pink jellyfish floated slowly up then sank slowly down in front of the falls. Catherine asked Vincent about them, but he said no one knew what they were. Other caverns had hollow, tubular formations running up the walls that moaned lovely, doleful harmonies as the Tunnel winds circulated through them. They walked under arches of crystal filigree, supported by pillars of black granite. After an hour, the tunnel opened into a vast open expanse. They had reached the outer border of The Ruins and stopped, mesmerized by the lifeless cityscape, a silent testimonial to a thriving civilization long ago passed away.

He offered her the canteen; she sat on a bolder and took a drink. "I'm still thinking about your dream," he said.

She smiled and nodded. "Me, too." She handed the canteen back to him.

He leaned his back against the tunnel wall and raised the canteen to his lips. As he drank, he believed he could taste the sweetness of her lips on its mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the flavor before he swallowed.

She watched him close his eyes, and envied the canteen. She looked away quickly. "That looks like a pyramid," she said.

He blinked, clearing his mind. He'd been picking up flashes of emotion from Catherine, striking like lightning, not lasting long enough for him to be able to identify the feeling. He knew she did this when she was trying to hide her feelings from him. He followed her line of sight.

"Yes, it does. We think it might have been used as a temple. Would you like to see it first?"

"That sounds good." She started to rise, then stopped. "Oh, wait—I remember something else from my dream. I think I must have been teasing you. I remember I had taken something from you, one of your things, and I was running away with it."

"Do you remember what it was?"

"No…but I remember that I had tucked it under my arm, like this." She demonstrated a football hold. "I had a head start, and I looked back over my shoulder at you, and I was laughing while I ran."

"What was I doing?"

She thought for a moment. "You were chasing me, but you were laughing, too."

He shook his head slightly. "I wonder what it all means?"

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's just a lot of nonsense."

"Maybe. But there are those who believe that dreams are the way our unconscious mind communicates with our consciousness."

"Really?"

"Jung believed that our unconscious mind uses symbols to communicate."

"Why symbols? Why not just speak plainly?"

"The unconscious mind has no language. It must use symbols, metaphors."

"Ah, I see. Then you might say there's meaning in everything, whether or not we intend there to be. Like that temple. It's the tallest building I see. People make the most important buildings the tallest. In medieval times, the churches were the tallest. Today it's the banks."

"It's true," he agreed.

She smiled at him.

He loved that smile. "Are you rested?"

"I'm ready if you are." She stood up.

They strolled wide paths past rock-walled garden plots and wondered if the inhabitants could have grown any plants at all; or, rather, if they used the spaces outside their small homes to sit, hold hands, and watch their children play. They studied frescos, friezes and mosaics on walls that indicated the nature of the building, bakeries, laundries, baths, barbers.

At noon, they sat down in what might have been a marketplace, resting their backs against a dilapidated building. Vincent spread a cloth and Catherine laid out their picnic of fruit, cheese, bread—and she surprised Vincent with a demi-bottle of red wine.

When they finished, stomachs full of good food, and muscles relaxed with good wine, Vincent pulled a volume out of his pack and handed it to Catherine.

"You pick," he said.

She opened the book and turned the pages slowly. Her choice made, she handed it to him as she nestled against him. He pulled her close with his right arm and held the book in his left.

"Poe," he observed.

"Yes," she murmured, rubbing her cheek on his vest.

 _Take this kiss upon the brow!  
And, in parting from you no  
Thus much let me avow-  
You are not wrong, who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream._

I stand amid the roar  
Of a surf-tormented shore,  
And I hold within my hand  
Grains of the golden sand-  
How few! yet how they creep  
Through my fingers to the deep,  
While I weep- while I weep!  
O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not save  
One from the pitiless wave?

She was asleep; he stumbled through the final lines.

 _Is all that we see or seem  
But a dream within a dream?1_

And he was asleep as well.

As she dreamt, she saw herself in an airport, waiting to board. Then the arrival/departure screen flashed "Cancelled" next to her flight. She looked around at the other passengers. She saw a woman holding a baby. The baby was bursting with good health, happy, cooing, laughing. Suddenly, she was seated on the plane, and soaring into the blue. A flight attendant walked down the aisle toward her; her name tag said, 'Miss Trust.' She looked around at the other passengers, and she knew them all; people she worked with currently, and at her father's firm, people she'd gone to law school with, people she'd gone to high school with. She was seated in an aisle seat; she remembered to look for the exits. The plane hit turbulence. She ran to the cockpit and pulled the plane out of the turbulence, and soared once more.

Then she saw herself as she had before, in a long, lacy gown, laughing and running from Vincent, with a book tucked under her arm. He was laughing and chasing her.

Still holding each other, they woke together, still smiling. He wanted to kiss her warm, soft lips so badly that his breath caught.

"Nothing like too much good food and wine to make you sleepy," she said. "Should we head back?"

"Yes, I think we should," he answered. They packed up the remains of their picnic.

They hiked for some time in silence, holding hands, still smiling. "I liked your choice of poem," he murmured.

"If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up," she answered. "I dreamt about you," she added.

"And I about you."

"Oh, my. What did you dream?"

"I dreamt you were in an airport. The flights were listed on a board, and it showed that your flight had been cancelled. You turned and saw a woman holding a beautiful baby. Then you were flying—"

"—soaring high in a blue sky. The stewardess walks down the aisle toward me, and I see her nametag; it says—"

"—Miss Trust," they said together. They stared.

Finally, Vincent shook his head a little. "This bond we share…"

"Now we're sharing our dreams."

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "We share a dream, and we're sharing our dreams." He thought for a moment. "Let's pay a visit to Narcissa."

They found her in her chamber, several levels beneath the dwellings of the other Tunnel Dwellers. She was stirring the contents of a small cauldron suspended over the fire in her hearth. She invited them to sit at her table, and they told her what was happening.

"A dream within a dream, indeed," she chuckled. "Tell me about this dream."

"It was actually two dreams," admitted Vincent. "I also shared your dream where you were lighting candles in a castle." They told Narcissa about the dream.

She listened, letting her head fall back a bit, resting her hands on the table, palms turned up. "I see Vincent, crossing an ocean, wind filling the sails of his boat…" as she spoke, images appeared in her crystal ball, illustrating the scene. "Days he spends, crossing the water…the water is the unconscious mind, where our true feelings and desires dwell. He journeys then, for days, over land, then sees Catherine in a great castle, in a vast hall, lighting candles. The light illuminates the understanding. You dance together. You work in partnership, in a ritual. There is a ritual you both want to share. He gives you white roses, Catherine. White roses are purity—chastity. This is why you felt sad. You long for a physical expression of your love, but Vincent offers you purity." Before they could get embarrassed, she pressed her questions on them. "As you ran from him, Catherine, what book did you hold under your arm?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Narcissa nodded. "Have you ever seen this book before? Did it feel like a familiar object?"

Catherine considered. "Yes, it did…it was a book I knew very well…Vincent?"

"I…almost…" He shook his head. "I reach out, but the answer is just beyond my grasp."

She nodded. "And what of the second dream?" They described it for her.

"Sometimes in our dreams the unconscious mind tries to speak to us by showing us the literal meaning of our figurative language. In this dream, at first your flight is cancelled, it does not take off. In English you have an expression for hopes that you never make any attempt to realize, you say your plans 'never got off the ground.' So, the unconscious part of your mind is thinking about plans you had, or a relationship you had, that you never worked to bring into being. The baby you see represents some newly born part of yourself. The airplane itself, or any vehicle we see ourselves in, represents our life. So, you are in your seat, soaring through the air, and another figurative saying you have is that you are 'reaching new heights.' You see the stewardess walking down the aisle, coming toward you. You see her name tag, 'Miss Trust.' She could be Miss Trust, the embodiment of trust itself. Or she could be mistrust, a personification of wariness. And you see all the other passengers on the plane are people you know, old friends, new friends, former co-workers, newer co-workers. You must ask yourself, what is your feeling? What is your most honest feeling about these people? Do you have the utmost trust in them, or are you actually unsure of their motives? You see yourself looking for the exits; you are looking for a way out. A way out of your life. The plane hits turbulence; this is your life, running into difficulties. You're afraid you've set your goals too high. You run to the cockpit and take over piloting, and pull the plane out of turbulence, and you soar smoothly above the clouds. This is you taking control of your life and reaching new heights." She paused, and cocked her head to one side. "But…are these Catherine's dreams that Vincent is seeing? Or are these Vincent's dreams that Catherine is seeing?" She pondered for a moment, then nodded. She spoke, more to herself than to the couple, "Yes…yes…what if the plane is Vincent's life? At first it seems as if none of his plans will ever get off the ground. Then something new and wonderful is born in him. Catherine. But can he trust her? His life up to now has been defined by his father. Can he trust this woman? Had he been looking for a way out of the life his father had prescribed for him?" She addressed him, "Vincent, you have had more difficulties since you've met Catherine than you've had in your entire life up to that point." He looked kindly at Catherine; she smiled ruefully at him. Narcissa continued, "You have been afraid that loving her was too great a risk for you both. But if you did dare to take control of your desires, your life, is there a part of you that believes you would soar to new heights of happiness?" Vincent and Catherine raised their eyes to meet one another's gaze.

Walking home, they were lost in their own thoughts for several minutes. Vincent broke the silence.

"Narcissa spoke of taking risks…daring to take action…daring to trust…I wish I had your courage, Catherine."

She was surprised. "My courage?"

He smiled. "You don't think of yourself as courageous, but you are. You changed your entire life completely around. You decided you wanted to do it, and you did it. You faced all the challenges that came with that decision. You're still making sacrifices—"

"I sacrifice nothing—"

"Tell the truth. You don't miss the dinners, the parties, the celebrities?"

"No."

"Tell the truth."

"Oooo, you…fine. There are times I remember all the excitement. The dresses, the jewelry…staying up all night, dancing, gossiping—"

"Stop. Stop thinking about it, you'll realize how much you miss it and go running back."

She laughed. "Never." She stopped; they faced each other. "I would never trade what I have now for what I had then." She looked down, then back into his eyes. "You know…I thought you were going to kiss me yesterday."

"I wasn't brave enough. I didn't dare," he whispered.

"Taking a risk is like jumping into cold water," she whispered back. "You have to be ready."

"You have to be brave enough to risk everything."

"When what you have is important to you, it's hard to risk it."

"You have to be ready."

They smiled, and continued walking.

She was happy at work on Monday. She only brought a few files home, and finished her work on them within a few hours after eating dinner. She changed into a negligee and sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, watching the moon rise. He wasn't there, but she felt him, and it made her feel warm, and happy.

She went to bed early, and dreamed. She was barefoot, and she wore a light, lacy, long white gown, and she was walking through an art gallery, filled with portraits, landscapes, abstract art, sculpture. It was a showcase of all her feelings, thoughts, and creativity. She saw Vincent walking through a hall filled with a show of all his emotions, hopes and fears. Together, they explored the rooms and found an antique secretaire. Vincent pulled open a drawer, and there lay his journal, but with one difference: there was a red rose embossed on the cover.

Vincent picked up the journal. "It's my life," he murmured. "My life, my wildness, my gentleness."

"It has a red rose," said Catherine.

"Red roses signify passion."

"Will you give it to me?"

He allowed her to slip it out of his hands. She looked at the cover, and realized that all she ever wanted was this perfect red rose of Vincent's. Suddenly, she felt mischievous. She turned and ran from him, tucking his journal under her arm in a football hold. He watched her run, and though he didn't mind the theft at all, he thought how wonderful it would be to catch her, and so he set after her.

She opened her eyes to bright blue moonlight, streaming into her bedroom. She rose, and pushed open the French doors. The night air was cool, and the lights of the city sparkled from across the park. She turned, and there he stood, holding a bouquet of red roses. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

"You caught me," she whispered.

"I'll never let go," he whispered into her lips.

1 A Dream Within a Dream, By Edgar Allan Poe


End file.
